


fever dreams

by 777335



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, M/M, good ending, happy fic, off season fic, sweet little things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 13:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10595037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/777335/pseuds/777335
Summary: Otabek knows he has a fever when he opens his eyes in the middle of the night.  He feels like he is looking out of a window, only there isn't anything to see.  He thinks 'shit', closes them, and tumbles back into sleep. The next time he wakes, it takes more effort. The sunlight is weak on the floor of his room.  The breeze picks fitfully at the light cotton curtain, like his mother fussing with the hem of his sister's dress.He feels very hot.  It is not that it is strange, in the summer in Almaty, to wake up already warm, but this is different.  He floats, like he is in a scalding bath.  The air seems to work against him when he tries to sit up."Otabek, you awake?"  The sound of Yuri's voice flutters into his ears like a bird with a broken wing.  Otabek can't make his throat work.  There is a pause. "Beka?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is the same as last time, future ficccccc, yuri comes to train with otabek during the summers, and has for the past three or so years, and they fall in love like black tea; the kind of love where it sits and seeps and and is much too hot to drink, and then all of a sudden it's strong and the best kind of good and hot enough that it warms you up when you drink, but cool enough to sip without burning your tongue. 
> 
> (only this is a different 'what if' than my troy falling story was and this particular time with more kissing and less achilles comparisons)

Otabek knows he has a fever when he opens his eyes in the middle of the night.  He feels like he is looking out of a window, only there isn't anything to see.  He thinks _'_ _shit_ _',_  closes them, and tumbles back into sleep. The next time he wakes, it takes more effort. The sunlight is weak on the floor of his room.  The breeze picks fitfully at the light cotton curtain, like his mother fussing with the hem of his sister's dress. 

He feels very hot.  It is not that it is strange, in the summer in Almaty, to wake up already warm, but this is different.  He floats, like he is in a scalding bath.  The air seems to work against him when he tries to sit up. 

"Otabek, you awake?"  The sound of Yuri's voice flutters into his ears like a bird with a broken wing.  Otabek can't make his throat work.  There is a pause. "Beka?"

He wants to tell Yuri that he is fine, but his body will not cooperate.  Yuri will worry and Otabek does not want to add to Yuri's worries, he feels he does that enough already. 

_ (He thinks back to a night, before Yuri left to go back to Russia from an Almaty visit cut short, when they had been soaking their feet in the tub after practice. Yuri had been overtired from a routine he couldn't get right, no matter how he tried, and the pressure of living up to his legacy, to Victor's legacy, to Yakov's expectations, to the world's thoughts on everything that he should be-- all of it like a million small cuts, no major wound but a constant bleed.   _

_ "I've been the main source of income for my family since I was ten, wait, maybe younger, I forget." Yuri had whispered with no anger or judgement in his voice, just a statement.  The stark light of the bathroom made his skin the color of paste, the circles under his eyes dark as ripe berries.  Otabek hadn't said a word. "I'm tired," Yuri had had said, as though it was something he hadn't realized before this moment. And then again, quieter, as though it was blasphemy to say, "Beka, sometimes I'm just so tired."   _

_I cannot make this better, Otabek had thought.  The realization had been like chewing on broken glass.  He had stood up, turned out the lights, sat back down in the dark, and wrapped his arms around Yuri.  Yuri cried into his chest until the tears had finally exhausted him.  Otabek put him to bed, drying Yuri's feet for him, while Yuri sang a Russian children's song, stuttering and stopping, as he tried to keep himself awake._

_Neither one of them had mentioned it the next day, beyond Yuri whispering thank you when he left for the airport, his eyes bright green and bloodshot from the tears._

_Yuri's eyes always turn such a crystal green color when he cried.)_

"Yura."  Otabek looks at the ceiling, but the white is oppressive and he has to close his eyes.

There is the sound of the door opening and then there are cools hands on his face and his chest and--

_ Beka, oh my god, wait, I'll call a doctor, your mother, your coach, the hospital, oh Beka, wait, just wait, just wait a minute _

\--Yuri leaves before Otabek can say _don't go._ The world is sickeningly hot again, in the absence of Yuri's hands.  Otabek stares at the place where Yuri was, trying to focus his eyes.  

_Come back_ , he wills, _come back_. 

Time passes, or doesn't; Otabek's not sure if he sleeps.

The doctor arrives.  The doctor tells him to rest. Tells Yuri something. There is an exchange of words. Yuri is on the phone, off the phone, on the phone again.  There are hands on his face and then there is a ghost of breath on his ear--  

_ I told you that you were working too hard, exhausting yourself, I said you were, I told you, Beka, I fucking told you, you idiot _

\--the door closes. 

_Yura, don't leave,_  Otabek says, but he doesn't say it at all. The words are too heavy to lift; his tongue rebels in his mouth.  

Otabek feels that Yuri is always disappearing around corners, just ahead of him.  It's been that way forever, since they were small, and then again when they were older, and he thinks it's nothing short of a miracle that Yuri even responded to his outstretched hand.  Otabek feels like the most tangible things he can hope to hold from Yuri are the echo of his laugh and the faint smell of lavender on Otabek's hands after he brushes Yuri's hair.  He is okay with just these things, as long as he can have them.

_ Yura, come back. _

He feels a weight on the edge of his bed and can tell by the brush of fingers that it is Yuri, because Otabek knows the touch of Yuri, even with his eyes closed.  Otabek reaches a hand out lazily and finds Yuri's with his fingers, runs the pads over Yuri's knuckles.  Yuri understands and flexes his hand so that Otabek can feel.  Otabek imagines Yuri's hand as he touches, he has memorized the planes of it, the swell of Yuri's knuckles like pearls trapped under the skin.  He rubs his fingers back and forth.  

It is a comfort, Yuri's hand; Otabek sleeps.

( _He dreams of a memory, Yuri arriving in Almaty last week, showing up at Otabek's apartment while Otabek was at the doctor for an unexpectedly arranged but routine checkup.  Yuri had let himself in to the apartment with the spare key.  Otabek had hurried, opened the door, and then been greeted with an armful of Yuri. Yuri, who was taller than him now, just barely, and still able to fold himself up just so in Otabek's arms, so that all Otabek could do was cling to Yuri like he was drowning and think 'don't let go yet'.  Yuri clung to him much the same way.  Otabek had held on tight with one arm, running his other hand up Yuri's back, pressing through the flimsy material of his t-shirt so that he could find each bump of Yuri's spine._

_When he had gone to put Yuri down, Yuri had made a sound like a cat cornered and pressed his nose into Otabek's neck, his hair in Otabek's face, tangled in Otabek's fingers, Yuri's fingers digging into Otabek's biceps, two of them leaving accidental perfect oval bruises that Yuri felt bad about, but that Otabek had been entranced by later that night, when he was alone._

_"Not yet", Yuri had whispered when Otabek had made to let go, "I'm not done hugging you yet, Beka.")_

He wakes and Yuri is looking at him, sitting on the edge of the bed.  He smiles at Otabek, who opens his mouth to say _'i'm better now_ ' and ' _don't worry_ ' but, before he can lie, Yuri presses a finger to his mouth and shushes him.  Yuri's finger is cold; when he leaves the room, Otabek's lips burn with the lack of it.  

"This is what we do in Russia," Yuri says as he returns, placing a tea cup on the nightstand.   Then he's by Otabek's feet with socks that Otabek does not want to wear. "Be glad it's not mustard wraps, my grandpa used to do those to me when I was ill and it's terrible."  Yuri says, reading Otabek's face like a book.  "But he always said that when you were sick you need to keep your head cool and feet warm."  Yuri's hands are cold and soft as he works the socks on Otabek's feet, and then his hands are cool on Otabek's head, holding an icy damp cloth that makes Otabek shiver.   Yuri smiles at him as he leans over Otabek.  "Okay?" He asks.  Otabek wants to run his fingers through Yuri's hair.

"Okay."  He says instead, his voice cracking.   

" _Shhh_ ," Yuri says again, his eyes flashing like a spark.  "Rest."His fingers skim Otabek's cheeks.  Otabek nods.

"You're very warm." Yuri says disapprovingly, leaning back, and Otabek could cry from the sudden lack of touch.  "It always helps me to think of cold things.  Do you want me to tell you about winter?"

Otabek turns toward the nightstand, following Yuri's movements, but he can't seem to connect them.  There is a lump of jam, red like fresh blood sitting on a spoon.  Yuri's face is close to his.  Yuri is sitting on the edge of the bed.  He is helping Otabek sit up against pillows.  Yuri's hands are cool on his bare arms.  Yuri is testing the tea to see how hot it is, his mouth a perfect 'o' as he blows. Yuri opens his mouth and sticks out the tip of his tongue, looking at Otabek.  Otabek tries to fit all the pieces together.   

Yuri waits patiently, his mouth open, until Otabek copies the movement.  Yuri plucks a lump of jam from the spoon and places it on Otabek's tongue and, before Otabek can react, whispers-

"Wait."  

So Otabek does, letting the sweet taste of raspberry shock his tongue as he watches  Yuri lick his fingers clean.  "Good." Yuri whispers, voice like cracking eggshells, and he leans forward and closes Otabek's mouth a little with a moist finger.  "Drink."  Otabek sips carefully, then stops. "More."  Yuri demands, so Otabek sips again.  "Good, Beka," a whisper as thin as the edge of the china teacup against Otabek's mouth. Yuri's fingers ghost on his jawbone.  "A little more. That's my Beka." Otabek feels dizzy. 

Yuri pulls the cup back after another sip and balances it on the night table, redoes his messy half up ponytail in a few moments, tucking stray strands behind his ears.  Otabek hates that.  He wants Yuri's hair free; he wants to tangle his fingers in it.  

"Need to cut my hair."  Yuri murmurs, a lilt in his voice almost like when he's teasing, as he notices Otabek's eyes following the movements. 

Yuri's hair like dripping gold.  

Yuri's hair when Otabek combs it, sitting on the sofa, Yuri sat between his legs fiddling with his phone less and less, leaning into the touch.  Yuri in the locker room, feet up on the bench, waiting for Otabek to braid his hair before practice, a curtain of hair that Otabek pulls back so he can see Yuri's eyes.  Yuri fresh out of the shower, spinning on the kitchen tiles, combing his hair with his fingers and humming along with his ipod.  Yuri's arms stretched behind his head as he braids his own hair before bed, absentmindedly while watching tv, the muscles in his back flexing as he moves, his fingers nimble and quick through the strands. Yuri in the morning demanding coffee, with bedhead like a halo and haphazard curls from braids he forgot he left in.  Yuri finding youtube tutorials and demanding Otabek learn this braid, _now this one, do this one, do this for me, Beka._

_Don't,_  Otabek wants to say, but Yuri offers more jam on a fingertip, the taste of his skin underneath the sweetness a whisper that Otabek can't ignore.  Otabek tries again, _don't_ , he tells his mouth to say,  _don't cut your hair_ , but Yuri smiles at him and gives him more tea, and the words evaporate in the heat, linger around Yuri's face, kiss the wet of his lips.  

"Sleep now?" Yuri questions, when the cup of tea is done.  Otabek hates the thought.  If he sleeps, Yuri will go.  

"No, you didn't tell me about winter." Otabek manages to rasp, and Yuri smiles, leaves the room with the cup.  

_Wait,_ Otabek tries to say, but the words don't come out.  Otabek is so dry his lips are cracking, his nails are cracking, his voice is cracking, his heart is cracking.  He closes his eyes. 

"How cold did you say it gets in Almaty?" Yuri asks, bringing more tea and a little jar of jam.  He sits, and then his tongue is out and Otabek copies it again, mindlessly, following the pink with his eyes.  Another ghost of a second where Otabek tastes Yuri beneath the sweet.  The tea is good and the sleep has helped, Otabek feels exhausted, but the room is not spinning anymore.

"Like living in the very center of a piece of ice." Otabek whispers, in answer, a few sips later.  He swallows the jam quickly, so that Yuri has to give him more.  "Did your Grandpa feed you from his fingers like this?"  He asks, confused, as he suddenly realizes what Yuri had said before, both sentences clicking together.

Yuri laughs like a call to prayers and Otabek burns. 

"No, Beka." Yuri says and looks at Otabek. "Do you want me to stop? I can use the spoon."   _No, no, no._  Otabek can't answer, so he shakes his head, maybe too quickly. Yuri grins like a shark, like he's going to eat Otabek raw and suck the marrow from his bones.  Yuri parts his lips in example, waiting, and Otabek opens his mouth, obediently.  "Like the center of a piece of ice, mm?"  Yuri continues.  "Good, think about that and feel cold and let me tell you about winter in Russia."  He starts to talk, his voice like fresh, cool sheets over Otabek's skin. 

When Yuri had been young, the frozen lake had cracked, split from the cold.  

"The way lakes crack is like this," he tells Otabek, moving closer to him as Otabek finishes the cup of tea, "unexpectedly and, at first, invisibly, but loudly.  Like thunder."  

Yuri had been out with his Grandpa, his mother somewhere off on some stage, they were walking back to the car after a practice, but Yuri was very young so he must have just started skating.  It had been late winter, but the  air had still been so cold that it hurt to breath; Yuri was bundled up under layers and layers; he remembers the scratch of the material.  There had been a sound like a thrumming deep in Yuri's chest.  He had stopped, his Grandpa had stopped, they had turned toward the lake, expecting to see the end of the world, but there was nothing there.  They had stood, in silence, until the sound happened again.  Then it was obvious, the lake split through, clear to the water somewhere deep below, a crack from the edge that stretched as far as Yuri could see.  

"I think," he adds to Otabek, leaning forward his hair falling out from behind his ear, "that part is made up.  I was little, I can't quite remember it, but I thought it went forever. Do you know what I mean?  When you think it would be better if something went forever, so you remember it like that?" His hand is cupping Otabek's face, his eyes are like broken jade, and Otabek nods, turns his head into the cool of Yuri's hand.  He knows that feeling.  

_ It will be spring soon, _ his grandfather had said,  _but right now is the most unsafe, Yurochka. Things that look like they are solid are not anymore, you must be careful.  We are lucky this lake let us know that it is dangerous._  Otabek's eyes are closing, but he doesn't want to fall asleep; he holds Yuri's gaze as long as he can.  

"I think now," Yuri says, reaching out with the other hand and ghosting fingers over the shell of Otabek's ear, "that the enormity of the lake cracking, the feel of it and the sound of it- it was very much like falling in love is.  Invisible at first, maybe, and then so obvious there's no way not to see it." 

"Yura."  Otabek tries to say.

"Sleep now, Beka.  It's good to sleep now."

 

When Otabek wakes up there is only the palest of light creeping into his room through his open door.  He feels a little better, though still overly warm.  The clocks says it's almost midnight.  He should be hungry, but he does not think he is.  He pushes himself up to sitting position and opens his mouth, not sure if he wants to call for Yuri or not.  Before he can decide, Yuri is in the doorway.

"Can you eat?"  Yuri asks.  Otabek nods, after a second, and Yuri disappears, comes back with a bowl.  He flicks on the reading lamp on Otabek's nightstand instead of the ceiling light, and settles on the edge of the bed, pulling his feet up as Otabek sits.  He holds the bowl out, when Otabek is settled.  It is not Russian food; Japanese, Otabek thinks. Rice porridge and something sour and sweet and pink mixed in that Yuri keeps in the fridge and Otabek has taken to ignoring.  Otabek raises his eyes to meet Yuri's, which are calm, but shadowed.

"Eat." Yuri says. "You'll feel better.  You slept all day."  

Otabek takes a bite and then another, ignoring the tiredness that starts to seep back into his bones.  "Be good, I made that for you," Yuri warns, when Otabek starts to give back the barely touched bowl.  So Otabek takes another bite and then another. "You're doing good, Beka, just a little more, so good." Their eyes catch in the half light.  Otabek flushes, there is something on the edges of Yuri's voice when he says things like that and it makes the whole world go sideways, like turbulence.   

Otabek drops Yuri's gaze and looks back at the rice porridge.  "Tell me about the cold again." His throat feels tight.  

Yuri tells him about the coldest winters in Russia and the drifts of snow that pile up and how Yuri likes to slide on the ice in his boots, but only when people can't see- when he was little he wasn't allowed to because his Grandpa said it was dangerous, and now he thinks he's too old to enjoy the way it makes him feel, weightless, but he loves it because it's not skating at all and that's why it's good.  He tells Otabek about a Russian saying ' _The church is near but the road is all ice; the tavern is far but I'll walk very carefully'_   that Yuri hadn't understood at first, and then realized it meant people won't work for virtue, but they'll go to great effort to sin.  He tells Otabek that he's not sure he agrees with that interpretation because he doesn't think it's so much that people want to sin, as they will justify what they don't want to do and what they do want to do, however they can.  But, he tells Otabek, he liked to say it to himself, after he moved to St. Petersburg, while he walked to the rink to practice, because the rink was his church and his tavern and he needed it like air- _I'll walk very carefully_.  

Otabek finishes what he can; Yuri takes the bowl with a murmured praise  _good job_.  Otabek sinks into Yuri's words like they're a snowbank.

_"_ Besides, people act like the winter is dangerous and, yeah, it's true, but that's why it's beautiful, no?  Like, sometimes the trees split from the cold too," Yuri whispers, leaning in so close, "It's so cold it's like they just give up, that makes the same sound the lake did, suddenly like a gunshot, and crack right up the middle, like God reaching down with an invisible axe.  It's not safe to be out in the woods, in the dead of winter.  The ice would fall and kill you, and if you didn't die from that, a tree would crack and break and hit you, and if you didn't die from that, maybe God would just get frustrated and reach down and split you in two from the cold.  Just like that."    

"That's what it felt like when you agreed and got on the back of my motorcycle." Otabek whispers, and Yuri looks at him strangely.

"When?" He asks, his voice going up like he's confused, "The first time, in the alley?"  Otabek nods.  "It felt unsafe?"  Yuri sounds concerned.

"No," Otabek mumbles, because that's not it at all. "Like proof of God." He's desperate against the sleep tugging at him with fingers like claws.  "Just like that."

Yuri looks at him and waits, like people do between when they see lightning and are counting until they hear the thunder.  

"Sleep now." Yuri whispers and pushes Otabek's hair off his forehead.  "You have it all backwards though, you know-"  Otabek hears Yuri say and protests against the sleep as it drags him down, and "--just like that."  Otabek wants to know the rest of the sentence, but he can't ask.

 

When he wakes up the next morning, it is almost noon and he feels better, weak, but better.  He reaches for his phone and checks the blinking string of texts from Yuri-- _gone to practice;_ _be back before dinner; call me if you need me to come back; you seemed better when i checked this morning; you're not feverish, idt, but you need a shower; don't do too fucking much_  and then _i'm n_ _ot fucking joking, beka; about any of it; CALL ME AS NEEDED --_  and then his mother and coach and the club where he has a show and a few others.  Otabek responds to the ones he needs to, alerts his friends via their group text, where they are deeply involved in funeral preparations for him, that--

 _no, i'm not dead, don't light candles for me, that's sacrilege_ and also _who told the club i was dead, i have a show you utter jackasses i will MURDER you in your sleep_ and also _if you insist on flowers don't bring mums to the memorial, yura would be pissed he hates those, bring gladioli_

Otabek promptly receives two responses that say _it's almost like i can still hear his voice_ , three snaps of candles lit in front of posters of him that he wishes his friends had never been given access to, and one response of _what the actual fuck is a gladioli, is that pasta_.

While they work that out, he sends Yuri a snap of his motorcycle key and helmet with the caption _going for a ride, catch you later_  to infuriate him when he takes a break, and then re-mutes his group text due to the thorough and merciless shade he is receiving for being concerned with Yuri's emotional state after Otabek's death, for calling him Yura which is _omg so cute so cute just too cute when is the wedding,_  and also for knowing what flowers Yuri likes, just in general.

 _Fuck off_   he responds, expertly. 

His work done and his phone mostly quiet, he takes a shower.

After, he considers making his bed with fresh sheets, but it seems like a lot of effort, so he eats some leftover rice and a few pieces of fruit, and then curls up on the couch, turns the tv on, and receives an angry snap from Yuri of a black screen with an ominous _I WILL_ _KILL YOU DEAD, ALTIN_.  Otabek smiles, lifts the phone up and takes a picture of himself laying on the couch.  He stares at it for a second, his hair is tousled and wet and sticking up in the way that always makes Yuri reach out and touch and, no, he doesn't look great, he's still a little waxy, but it's good enough.  He adds  _you wouldn't dare, plisetsky_ , sends it, and drifts off into sleep.  

When he wakes the sun is down and Yuri is in the apartment, chopping something in the kitchen.

"Yura."  He says, when there is a pause.  Yuri turns and smiles, his eyes as green as new spring grass, and Otabek breathes deep.   

"Salad later."  The knife clinks on the counter.  Otabek knows he must look better because the next thing Yuri says is teasing, "I must tend to my poor sweet little Beka, so ill, so weak, so small."  Yuri steps off the tile into the open living room, kneeling by the couch in a fluid motion, putting him on angle to look up at Otabek. "I switched your bedsheets while you were asleep."  He says, looking into Otabek's eyes; it's nostalgic to have to look down at Yuri.  Yuri presses a hand to Otabek's head before Otabek can formulate a response, and then nods once, definitively.  "You seem normal, just a little pale, but good.  The doctor said he thinks you literally ran yourself into exhaustion, since you weren't ill like the flu or a virus.  You feel better now, rested?"  

"Yes."  Otabek says, as Yuri removes his hand and starts running it though Otabek's hair, tangling the longer bits beneath his fingers, fascinated.  "Yura--" Otabek starts, not sure where he is going.  It seems unfair that Yuri always touches him so easily, when his heart feels like it's going to break every time he brushes Yuri's hair.

"Mm?"  Yuri hums, his hand pausing, and then running down the sides of Otabek's buzz, fingers scratching at the short hair.  Otabek thinks about the way Yuri hugged him when he arrived in Almaty.  He thinks about late night facetime calls, literally falling asleep in bed but reluctant to hang up, Yuri's gentle insistence that Otabek should go to bed. He thinks about the taste of Yuri's fingers in his mouth underneath the jam. He thinks about the way Yuri looks at him after Otabek perfects a difficult sequence.  The way Yuri had cried on him and the feeling of Yuri's tears like a permanent mark on Otabek's chest; the way Yuri had curled around him, tucked Otabek's head into the crook of his neck, while Otabek had cried one night in St Petersburg, like Yuri thought he could fold Otabek inside himself and keep him safe and-- "Beka?"  Yuri whispers. 

"Fuck it." Otabek says simply, and leans forward and kisses Yuri, tangling his fingers in Yuri's hair like he's wanted to do for ages, but not been able to do without the excuse of a brush in the other hand.  He expects, at best, a heart-breaking second where Yuri doesn't kiss back and then maybe leans away or, at worse, for Yuri to push him away immediately-- but Yuri surges up to meet him, kisses back like breathing, wraps fingers around the back of Otabek's neck.  Every part of Otabek is overwhelmed.   

"Wait, really no fever?"  Yuri asks, pulling back and checking, his fingers dancing a nervous dance over Otabek's skin, his eyes scanning Otabek's face to make sure there is nothing amiss.  "This isn't, like, some sort of fever-induced--"

"God, no. I want.  No. It's you-induced.  I've always.  Just."  Otabek mumbles into Yuri's mouth, unable to decide how to make the words clear, pulling him closer, pulling him up, sliding his fingers deeper into Yuri's hair so that he can tilt Yuri's head and get better access.  Yuri's fingers settle a little and he makes a small sound that could be approval, or acceptance, or understanding.  Otabek lets Yuri dictate the next move, the next kiss, instead of talking, and Yuri kisses him like Otabek couldn't have imagined, even if he had let himself.   

Yuri sucks Otabek's lower lip between his teeth and pulls a little, biting down, when they break apart.  Otabek can't stop the small sound that escapes his mouth and Yuri gives him that little grin that Otabek only now realizes Yuri saves just for him; he's never seen it directed anywhere else, not even on ice.  Yuri's breathing heavy, and he looks a little kiss drunk, kneeling in front of Otabek, the tip of his tongue visible, his lips the color of raspberry jam.  

Exactly the color of raspberry jam and Otabek is suddenly gripped with the irrational and all-consuming fear that this is a fever dream, that he will wake up alone and in bed and all of this will be lost to him, always just around the corner.  He's fine with not being able to have Yuri, to just only be allowed to be close but not this close, if that's what Yuri wants, but the thought right now of losing this is devastating.

As though Yuri can hear the fear, he tightens his grip and leans in close, presses their foreheads together, lifts one hand up and finds Otabek's hand in his hair. His fingers are trembling, but his grip is strong.

"Beka."  Yuri whispers, just the softest sound, the syllables like the ringing tones of the church bells Otabek hears when he stays in Russia.  "Beka."  He says again, pressing his forehead down, to Otabek's lips, like Otabek sometimes kisses him late at night before he catches himself, "Beka," he works his hand under Otabek's and Otabek runs one finger over Yuri's knuckles, reveling in the solid proof of Yuri here and now.  

Otabek lets himself feel a pure ringing joy that spreads out from the center of his chest, a joy he has been afraid to even try and feel for so long.  And then, just because he can, and because Yuri is still kind of trembling under his hands, like he's still not sure that Otabek is for real about this-

"You're so hot I think you're giving me a fever though."  Otabek mumbles. 

"Oh, wow," Yuri deadpans and pulls back and his smile could light up the heavens forever, "Oh holy shit, fucking wow, I am telling everyone you said that and you will never live it down, like ever, it will be on your fucking gravestone and your children's children's children will feel the shame, Altin."  

Otabek smiles. _Worth it_ , he thinks, if Yuri is going to keep looking at him like that, like the whole world is in Otabek's eyes.   _Worth it_ , if Otabek gets to feel Yuri's hands tugging Otabek's hair, if Otabek gets to run his fingers through the fine strands of Yuri's.   _Worth it,_  the way Yuri's tongue keeps escaping his lips to wet them and the fact that Yuri wants to kiss him and  _worth it forever_.  

Otabek pulls Yuri up for another kiss and Yuri comes easy to his lap, moving sinfully slow like warm honey, his hands writing hymns on Otabek's skin.  Yuri makes a little sound, muffled and desperate, when Otabek deepens the kiss, and that sound,  _that exact sound,_ is proof that angels are real and all Otabek can think, when Yuri kisses him so soft it almost hurts, is that Yuri is vital to his soul.

But that's been true since before this moment and the moment before it and the moment before that.  That's been true for so long Otabek doesn't know how long anymore, but since at least the first time he had realized he knew when Yuri was about to laugh for real, by the way he tilted his head and almost looked down his nose, when he realized that he knew before the laugh bubbled out of Yuri like fresh spring water.  When he realized the way his heart soared every time he made Yuri laugh.  

He's known since at least then, and every moment after that, and maybe some before.

 


End file.
